


Learning To Fly

by Grundy



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fëanor dealing with his kids, Gen, Years of the Trees, kids getting up to mischief
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-09 03:20:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14708145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grundy/pseuds/Grundy
Summary: Artanis and Irissë and Ambarussa can get into enough mischief separately. Put them together and it gets worse...





	1. Caught

**Author's Note:**

> Originally started as an Ambarussa piece for Feanorian Week 2018.

Fëanaro was in his study working through a tedious report his father felt he as the Crown Prince should read when he heard the loud _thunk_ of something hitting the exterior wall on the floor above.

He sighed into the abrupt quiet.

As a parent, one developed a certain intuition for when one’s children were into mischief, no matter how quiet they were. (Sometimes it was actually based on how quiet they were.) As the father of seven, and uncle to a further nine, his sense in this matter was perhaps more finely honed than any elf of his generation.

Pityo and Telvo being the only sons at home today also made the matter fairly easy…

He strolled outside, only to stop in surprise at the unexpected sight of Pityo dangling limply between two upper story windows, obviously trying not to whimper. The thunk had clearly been made by his son’s body impacting the wall at some speed.

A handmade circlet of feathers on the boy’s head suggested just what had been going on.

“Pityo,” Fëanaro drawled. “Did I or did I not have a conversation with your older brother on the subject of elves’ ability to fly?”

“Yes, Atto,” came the abject reply, accompanied by a whimper now that it was clear Atto already knew.

“So you do recall me telling Curvo that elves can’t fly.”

Curvo had tried the stunt at an older age, and he, Turvo, and Ingo had also had the sense to try it from a lower height than the roof.

Then again, as Fëanaro looked closer, this attempt might actually be slightly more sophisticated. For one thing, his son was dangling from a rope – and not one tied around his waist, but one that had been cleverly secured under his arms and around his legs.

Neither of his youngest two could have tied those knots. And much though it irritated him to admit it, they probably also wouldn’t have thought of harnessing themselves in such a way as to not break their necks or their ribs. (Though crashing into the house might mean Pityo did still have injuries to bone.)

“Who else is up there?” he asked, addressing the roof.

“Hi, Atto,” Telvo said sheepishly, poking his head up and out far enough to be seen.

“You and who else, Telufinwë?”

That finally got the full crew visible, as two more heads came into view, one light, one dark.

“At least when your brothers tried this, they did it from a _tree_ ,” Fëanaro pointed out irritably, speaking to his nieces as much as to his youngest sons. “Whose idea was this?”

“Mine.”

All four had spoken at once, including Pityo.

Fëanaro knew better than to show weakness – he was sure children could smell it – but it was exasperating that the four of them had learned that if they all claimed guilt at once, sorting out who was actually at fault generally took combined parental effort.

Any other time, he would have cheerfully advocated punishing all four equally, but if he was going to have to explain to Nerdanel how one of her two youngest had ended up in this state, he wanted to know who fully deserved punishment.

But that would have to wait…

“Artanis, lower him to the ground,” Fëanaro ordered.

“Yes, Uncle.”

Pityo did more than whimper as he began to descend, as well he might. Telvo and Irissë were no doubt helping Artanis with the weight, but neither of them had any practice at this, so the injured boy’s downward movement was not smooth. The frequent jerks as they tried to keep him at a safe but not too slow speed could not have been comfortable even without damaged bones.

“When you’re finished, get down here yourselves,” Fëanaro added, raising his arms to take as much of Pityo’s weight as he could before the boy could reach the ground. “ _Without_ worrying about dismantling the evidence!”

The first touch told him that Pityo would be spending several days in bed to think over this particular idea. The ribs might not be broken, but they were definitely bruised, and how neither arm had taken worse damage was quite beyond him.

Fëanaro found he didn’t have to worry about untangling the harness, as the rope suspending his son had been fastened rather cleverly to the harness in one intricate knot. It had snapped tight when it took the child’s falling weight, but a belt knife simplified matters considerably.

He carried his son into his study, laying him down on the couch just as the other three culprits came pelting in.

Someone – if pressed, he’d guess Irissë, as she was the most accident prone of the quartet – had thoughtfully stopped to gather bandages and other basic first aid supplies from the drawer in the hall where they were kept.

He took the bandages and let the other three fidget as he did what he could to make Pityo more comfortable. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to be done for the bruised ribs, at least not without sending for someone skilled in herb lore – he’d get to that – but to his relief he could find no breaks.

When he was satisfied that his injured son was safe and as well as possible under the circumstances, Fëanaro straightened and moved to a spot where he could see all four youngsters.

“What do you have to say for yourselves?” Fëanaro asked sternly.

“I flew for three whole seconds,” Pityo announced proudly.

“That wasn’t flying, that was falling,” Fëanaro snorted, mentally making a note to check that Curvo hadn’t put this particular bad idea into impressionable young heads.

“No, the falling came after, Atto,” Telvo insisted earnestly. “First there was _flying_.”

Fëanaro had been assembling a catalog of tells for several years, because scolding these four was worse than dealing with his older five sons combined. Which meant he knew when Telvo glanced sideways at Artanis that she must be speaking to him with osanwë. His youngest son always looks at her when she talks – at least, he does if he knows where she is. (Artanis taking after her father and his mother, she could probably speak to him from Alqualondë and make herself heard.) Fëanaro’s quite pleased with himself for working that one out, as it’s been useful more than once before today.

“Just because you jumped-”

“Atto, we actually knew what we were doing!” Pityo protested indignantly, the feather circlet that had unaccountably remained in place throughout his misadventure finally falling askew. The boy started to reach to straightened it, but stopped with a wince.

“You making the closer acquaintance of the brickwork on the upper stories suggests otherwise, Pityafinwë,” Fëanaro said drily. “Artanis, Irissë, nothing to add?”

“Of course not, Uncle,” Artanis murmured. “We won’t do it again.”

“The whole sentence, please,” Fëanaro said with a wave, because he also knew her favorite trick of leaving out a silent disclaimer.

“We won’t do it again like _that_ ,” she muttered with a frown.

Oh, for the love of…

“You won’t do it again _at all_. Full stop. Young elves cannot fly – you do not have wings.”

“He _had_ wings!” Irissë protested before Artanis could stomp on her foot.

The other three rewarded her with appalled looks, certain they’d just ended up in deeper trouble.

“Really? Where are his wings now?” Fëanaro asked skeptically. He hadn’t seen anything like wings.

“They broke when I hit the house,” Pityo replied mournfully. “And they took ages to make.”

Feanaro frowned. This bore investigation. Before he could go check for the remnants, though…

“Artanis, Irissë, and Telufinwë, you’re well aware there are four corners in this room. Each of you pick one.”

There was a round of sighs as the three miscreants all retreated to their chosen positions. As there were only three instead of the normal four children being told to stand in the corner, the usual ‘Telufinwë and Pityafinwë may not stand in adjacent corners’ did not apply.

It occurred to Fëanaro for the first time as he watched the three of them that Artanis always took the corner that had bookshelves on both sides – which likely meant that she’d been using her punishment as thinking time for the past year at least. Possibly longer, depending on when she’d gotten good at reading.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t in a position to do anything about it at the moment, particularly not when it was probably safer to have her occupied than not while he was out of the room.

“Pityafinwë, you are to stay right there on that couch.” Feanaro paused, then added, “I expect if you try to go anywhere, you’ll regret it even if I don’t happen to catch you.”

“Yes, Atto,” his son agreed.

Happily, he seemed uninclined to try – whether because his ribs were already paining him sufficiently to make lying down quietly attractive or because he was unwilling to try his father’s patience at the moment was anyone’s guess, but it would do for now.


	2. Investigation

Despite his curiosity to see the ‘wings’ Pityo had allegedly had, Fëanaro didn’t head outside first.

He was sure the three still mobile children in his study would attempt to sneak up to the roof to hide what they’d been up to before they’d dare the yard, where there was a much greater chance of being caught disobeying. The house might be private, but the courtyard was not – apprentices, visitors, tradespeople, and relatives could all potentially pass through at any given moment.

So he turned toward the stairs, meaning to have a look at whatever was on the roof first.

He met his eldest son and eldest nephew coming through the front door.

“Atto!”

“Uncle!”

Both greeted him with cheerful enthusiasm, only to trade a concerned look at the expression on his face. They might be grown now, but they knew the expression of ‘aggravated father’ (or in Finno’s case ‘uncle’) well enough from their own youth.

“Nelyo, kindly step into my study and mind your baby brothers and Artanis,” Fëanaro instructed, pleased to have another adult to supervise them. It significantly increased the odds of finding his study undestroyed and more or less as he’d left it. “Finno, take your sister home and let your parents she has something to tell them – _both_ of them.”

Irissë might not mind confessing her part in the afternoon’s misdeeds to Nolo, but Fëanaro knew Anairë would take a dim view of the proceedings, and would definitely be outraged when she discovered it had ended with an injury. As such, he could count on her meting out appropriate consequences without any further action on his part.

Findekano looked to be trying not to laugh, but Nelayfinwë took the instructions seriously.

“Of course, Atto,” he replied worriedly. “What have they done this time?”

“Ask your little brother why he’s quite lucky not to have any broken bones,” Fëanaro suggested darkly as he climbed the stairs.

On the roof, he was appalled to discover that his son had apparently started his ‘flight’ from the highest point of the roof, judging by the way the rope had been anchored and the angle it had been left at.

Thank Nienna for small mercies - at least Artanis (and it had to have been her – the other three did not put nearly as much thought or effort into their mischief) had taken the time to work out how to keep her cousin from breaking his neck falling outright.

He was interested to find that a more elaborate headpiece had evidently been discarded in favor of the simple feathered one he’d found Pityo wearing – and he wondered whose decision it had been, for the stiff material that would have covered his head and neck entirely, leaving only his face free, would have provided much greater protection.

He turned it over in his hands, trying to work out how it had been constructed – and certain he knew which son to ask about it, given that it involved fabric rather than wood or metal.  It would appear today’s attempt at flight had been a group effort…

He tested the still secure rope and discovered it would hold his weight, meaning there was no need for him to take the stairs. Let the children puzzle out how he’d gotten from the roof to the ground without them seeing or hearing! (It was another thing he’d learned as a parent – it never hurt to have your sons think you knew more than you actually did, and _certain_ that you knew more than they did.)

He lashed the odd hat to his belt with a stray bit of rope, and then shimmied down to the courtyard.

When he reached the ground, he surveyed the area. He saw more bits and pieces of fabric, but nothing like the stiff, bulky headgear. It appeared to be the same fabric, though…

He puzzled it over for a few seconds until he realized what the children had done. The answer astonished him. Somehow, there must be _air_ trapped in the headgear! The ‘wings’ had been of the same construction – but when they hit the wall, they had failed, thus leaving only fabric to find. (Also, thus how Pityo’s arms had remained unscathed.)

He did have to wonder if Moryo had understood the purpose of what he’d made. He knew perfectly well the four in the study couldn’t have constructed anything so sophisticated on their own. He also wondered whose design it had been originally, Moryo’s or one of the littlest ones. (Whatever the original intent, he suspected it had turned into a collaboration. Moryo knew far more about working with fabric, and would probably have been intrigued by the challenge.)

He thought his middle son would have had the sense to tell a parent if he’d known what his baby brothers had in mind, so his suspicion was that Moryo had been humoring the little ones after being presented with what would have been to him merely another odd dress-up request. Varda knew the four youngest Finwions had come up with enough bizarre games requiring costumes in the past, and Moryo was generally willing to indulge them, particularly if he was looking to try out a new material or technique. This was different from anything Fëanaro had previously seen, so would not have taken much persuasion on the part of the little ones.

He re-entered his study through the double doors that opened onto the courtyard – Nolo had scoffed at the impracticality of them until Fëanaro had pointed out they meant he could go directly from his study to his workshop at any hour of the day or night without disturbing the rest of the house.

He found Nelyo perched on the edge of the couch, listening to Pityo. At first he’d thought his eldest son was soothing his younger brother, but to his surprise he realized Pityo was proudly recounting his unprecedented flight – longer than Curvo had managed! And they could _improve_ on it!

It was fortunate that neither of his sons caught sight of his face before Nelyo gently informed his baby brother that trying to improve on flying for three whole seconds sounded rather dangerous, and should perhaps wait until he was somewhat older.

“No, Maitimo,” Pityo replied earnestly. “It’s easier to do _now_ , while we’re still littler and lighter than adults!”

“And it is still something you are not going to do,” Fëanaro said flatly, startling all four children in the room.

“Atto,” Nelyo said when he recovered, “shouldn’t we have Master Surilinquë look at Pityo’s ribs? They’re still paining him, and I don’t think Ammë will be home until late tonight.”

Fëanaro nodded. Neither he nor Nelyo had the necessary expertise to concoct an appropriate salve to dull the pain, at least, not with what they had to hand in the house and without looking up formulas to be certain.

“A good suggestion. Can you carry him to her workshop, or will you need assistance? I’m sure we can send for one of your brothers…”

“I can help!” Telvo piped up from his corner.

“I don’t need to be carried, Atto, as long as Maitimo helps me stand up,” Pityo protested. “It hurts worse when I try to move that way, but I think walking will be fine.”

“Telvo, you can go with them in case your brother needs to lean on you on the way,” Fëanaro decided. “I’m sure it will take some time, so tell Master Surilinquë I will be along presently.”

Telvo cast a sympathetic glance at Artanis as Nelyo steered both twins out the door and toward the most skilled herbalist among the Noldor, who had over the years become fairly well acquainted with all the princes (and princesses) of the Noldor from Fëanaro on down.

Left alone with the child he was certain was the architect of the afternoon’s misadventure, Fëanaro seated himself at his desk.

“Artanis, come have a seat,” he invited.

She looked somewhat surprised, as well she might – this was a new tactic. But she left her corner and scrambled up onto one of the chairs on the other side of the desk, obviously doing her best to be dignified and not let her feet swing.

He might not be as skilled as his little brother at osanwë, but Fëanaro could still follow her thought: _adults_ sat here to have discussions with Uncle, so she needed to behave like an adult if she was going to sit there. Good. He’d rather have a semi-adult conversation about this than simply scold her.

Fëanaro placed the intact headgear as well as the defunct wings on the desk.

“Your idea, I take it?” he asked.

She might have denied it, but the disappointment in her eyes at what was left of the wings was as good as a confession.

“Yes,” she muttered mournfully. “They _worked_ , you know.”

It was less a justification to an elder kinsman than wounded pride in front of one of the foremost craftsmen of the Noldor, and Fëanaro had to work not to smile.

“Really? How did Pityo come to crash into the wall if they worked?” Fëanaro asked reasonably.

Without her co-conspirators backing her up, he might actually get a straight answer.

“We misjudged how difficult it would be to keep the rope at the right length,” she replied with a deep sigh. “It snapped tight when we didn’t mean it to, and when it did, Pityo was pulled down and back and hit the house because he couldn’t fly forward again once he was going the wrong way.  It would have been better to use a pulley so the rope would move freely.”

Part of Fëanaro was delighted that she’d learned something from the experience. Part of him was furious that the lesson had nearly been at the expense of his son’s ribs.

“Why was it Pityo flying rather than you?” he asked carefully.

He would have expected that it being Artanis’ plan, she would have been keen to be the first to try out flying.

“He won the game to see who would get to go first,” she said, this time even more mournful than when she’d seen the ruined wings.

There were times when it was _ridiculously_ difficult not to laugh when trying to chastise a child.

“Do you understand it might have been even worse had it been you flying?” Fëanaro demanded as severely as he could manage. “Your cousins know much less of ropes and rigging than the granddaughter of Olwë – had you trusted your safety to them, you might have smashed into the wall even harder than Pityo.”

Worse, she might have smashed into the _ground_ , if the other three had given her too much rope rather than too little. Fëanaro might have had to explain to Arafinwë why the baby of the entire family was on her way to Lorien if not already in Mandos.

“I would have worn the helmet,” Artanis sniffed resentfully. “Pityo was being silly. The feather crown looked nicer, but it didn’t _do_ anything. The helmet would have kept my head from being hurt just like the wings did for his arms.”

“So the air was not meant to lift you up?” Fëanaro enquired curiously.

He’d thought that was the logic, and the protection had been a happy side effect.

Artanis gave a decisive shake of her golden head.

“No, we watched birds, and talked to Tyelko and Atto about them.”

Fëanaro suppressed a sigh of his own as he mentally added another name to the list of sons he’d have to speak to – he was down to only Kanafinwë and Nelyafinwë having no part. (Though he’d also wager his dear sweet baby brother hadn’t had any idea what the four imps were up to when they’d come to him wanting to know about birds.)

“Go on,” he said encouragingly, waiting for his niece to explain.

“Birds’ wings are long compared to their bodies, and help them stay on the air,” she said. “It’s a bit like swimming, but in air instead of water. So we knew we’d need wings the right size for us. But Tyelko told us that birds’ bones are different than elves’ bones, they have more air in them, and he showed us some that had been cut crossways so we would see what he meant. So we realized we couldn’t make our wings out of something heavy or solid like Ingo and Curvo and Turvo did.”

This mention of his older son’s prior attempt at flight brought back to Fëanaro’s mind the question of just how much story-telling – or perhaps heckling – from Curvo had prompted this exploit. Much as they loved them, the four youngest children of the House of Finwë occasionally felt overshadowed by their older siblings, and somewhat resentful of the frequent reminders that they were only children while everyone else was grown or nearly so. (At least he’d finally broken Curvo of rubbing it into the twins that they were ‘babies’. Nolo was still fighting that fight with Aryo. He was somewhat jealous that Ara’s boys all had better sense than to wave such an obvious challenge in their baby sister’s face.)

“So we tried out different things, but paper wasn’t strong enough to hold air like we wanted,” Artanis continued, “and we knew wood was not right already. Then we thought of using fabric.”

 _And pestered Moryo until he helped_ , Fëanaro mentally filled in, because no matter how clever they’d been about their plan, the youngest children in the family had neither the skill nor the experience required to produce those wings or the remarkable headgear unaided. But he also knew better than to expect Artanis to tell on any of her older cousins who had helped, knowingly or otherwise.

“The wings were stiff enough to use because there was so much air in them, but the air was also a cushion if we ran into anything,” Artanis continued, on a roll now – and aware from prior incidents that if she didn’t tell him enough of the full story Uncle Fëanaro would just keep asking questions. “I didn’t think they’d burst like that, though.”

She frowned dejectedly as she examined the remnants on the desk.

“If you were to do it over again, would you do anything differently?” Fëanaro asked.

Artanis looked surprised by the question, but she thought intently for a moment.

“If we were doing it from the roof again? A pulley, definitely. I would ask my uncles which one was best. But maybe it would have been better to try flying from the cliffs north of Alqualondë instead. Then we wouldn’t have needed a rope, because if the wings did not hold, Pityo would just have dropped down into the water. And if they did work, he might have been able to fly even longer…”

“Artanis Arafinwiel, if you hit water from a sufficient height it is no different than hitting the wall,” Fëanaro told her sternly. “If you do not believe me, ask your mother or your grandfather!”

“Yes, but those cliffs are used for _diving_ , Uncle, people do it every summer! So the height can’t be that dangerous there,” Artanis protested.

Fëanaro was poised to argue, until a truly inspired punishment struck him.

“Never the less, you will _not_ be trying to fly again before you come of age, do you understand?”

“But _Uncle_ -”

“No buts! When you’re older, you’ll understand how dangerous this afternoon really was. And to help you along that path, you will write me an essay explaining in full how you made your plan _and_ all the things that could have gone wrong with it along with what the likely outcome of each of those potential failures would have been.”

That should keep her occupied for some time, given that he can think of a dozen ways off the top of his head. And while it might give her ideas on how to refine her first attempt, it would hopefully also make her think more carefully about any future experiments – which would _not_ be conducted until she was old enough to understand the danger and skilled enough to make all the required equipment herself.

He’d also make sure Moryo knew to question his little brothers and cousins more carefully in future before fulfilling such odd requests...

Artanis’ expression suggested she didn’t see how he planned to enforce his punishment – she knew as well as Fëanaro did that her father would protest setting her such an involved assignment at her age. (Nevermind that she could do it.)

“Until I have an acceptable essay in hand, there will be no playing with Pityo and Telvo, at my house or yours – and they will likely be confined to the house for several weeks until Pityo’s ribs fully heal.”

Her eyes widened in outrage at the prospect of being cut off from her partners in crime, even if she would doubtless still have Irissë for consolation.  

“If you feel having your father lodge a complaint on your behalf will help, by all means. But as I do not mean to go back on my word, I suspect it would be quicker to simply do the essay. A few days in Atar’s library and some questions to the right people should do the trick, I should think."

Fëanaro suppressed a chuckle at her dire expression. He’d lay odds he would receive an essay superior to anything Tyelko or Moryo had produced at this age by the end of the week. Even left to her own devices, she'd produce something acceptable, but he suspected he could count on Curvo to drop her hints once he heard of the assignment. 

That would only leave him the tiny problem of making sure the fearsome foursome didn’t attempt a repeat just as soon as they thought he had let down his guard...


	3. Damage Control

His discussion with Artanis over, Fëanaro stood, gesturing for her to do the same.

“I will take you home, and then I will go see how badly you’ve damaged my son,” he said lightly, knowing perfectly well that the girl’s own guilty conscience would trouble her more than anything he could possible say or do at this point.

“Can’t I go with you, please, Uncle?” she asked.

“No, I think not,” he replied. “It’s usually the case that by the time Master Surilinquë finishes with her salves and potions, you children want nothing more than your own bed, and your house is not on the way from Surilinquë’s workshop to here.”

Artanis’ face fell, but she did not contest the logic – and probably understood the unspoken addendum that he wanted a word with her father without a wrung out, sleepy Pityo in tow. (In principal he could send the twins back with their brother, but he did not like to assign too much responsibility that was properly his to Nelyafinwë simply by virtue of him being the eldest son.)

Artanis was no longer so young that she was required to hold an adult’s hand when walking through the streets, but she did not protest her uncle keeping her hand in his. Whether it was a form of apology or because she was in need of reassurance, he couldn’t say. But he enjoyed it all the same – Artanis wasn’t often in a mood to humor him so, and while he would never risk Nerdanel’s safety for it, he would have liked to have a daughter.

They met Arafinwë coming from the direction of the King’s House just as they reached his front gate – most likely returning from the same tedious council meeting as Nelyo and Finno, but Fëanaro suspected Atar had preferred to release his grandsons earlier and hash out the results of the meeting and plan for the next one with Ara and his inexhaustible patience and good humor.

“Artë?” Ara asked worriedly as he caught sight of the pair of them. “Have you been naughty again?”

“Of course not, Ara,” Fëanaro answered drily. “She only tried to better her brother and Curvo in the matter of elves flying.”

Ara’s eyes widened in almost comic alarm.

“Artanis Nerwen! You know your brother broke his arm doing that, why would you try such a thing?”

“I had a better plan, Atto,” Artanis protested mulishly. “Ask Uncle Fëanaro!”

Ara looked at him almost accusingly, as if this were somehow _his_ fault.

“Oh, her plan was undeniably better,” Fëanaro confirmed cheerfully. “And correspondingly more dangerous. Ingo and Curvo broke an arm each. I’d say this one is lucky not to have broken her neck. As it is, Pityo is visiting our good friend Master Surilinquë to have his ribs seen to.”

Now Arafinwë looked disappointed, but in his daughter rather than his brother.

“I’m so sorry, Naro, I don’t know how she could possibly have thought _flying_ was a good idea. I’ll speak to her,” he promised. “Is Pityo badly hurt?”

“It’s all right, little brother,” Fëanaro said magnanimously. “I’ve spoken to Artanis already. From what I could tell, Pityo’s ribs are bruised, not broken. I have every hope the next week or so of discomfort will be a sufficient reminder of how foolish he was to prevent a repeat, even if he is currently telling all and sundry that he flew for _three whole seconds_.”

Artanis still looked somewhat rebellious at that, no doubt already plotting to better that time at some point in the future.

“I hope he heals quickly, Naro,” Ara replied. “Let me know if there’s anything we can do aside from keeping this one at home for the time being.”

“No need,” Fëanaro smiled. “She knows the conditions of being allowed to play with Pityo again, and I trust she’ll meet them.”

Arafinwë gave his youngest a sterner look than Fëanaro could ever recall seeing on him, and didn’t even ask what the conditions were.

“I won’t keep you,” Ara said in some embarrassment. “I’m sure you’re anxious to get back to your son.”

He steered his daughter firmly into the house, and as Fëanaro turned to continue on his way, he could hear his little brother telling his daughter that just because Uncle Fëanaro had already said his piece did _not_ mean she would not be discussing this with her parents.

Just as long as Ara didn’t ban her from the library – Fëanaro was expecting references for her essay.

In fact, now that he thought on it, perhaps she shouldn’t be the only one who had to remedy her lack of forethought and planning in writing. Pityo would have plenty of time to work on an essay since he would almost certainly be ordered to rest for several days. Telvo could be sent to Atar to work on his essay on his own.

Unfortunately, there was no point whatsoever in attempting the same tactic with Irissë – she was as flighty as Tyelko had been when it came to such things. He’d have to just trust Anairë to come up with something suitable.

When he reached the herbalist’s, he found his son no longer in pain but as unhappy as a parent hoping to make an impression could want.

“Atto, it smells _awful_ ,” Pityo whined. “And she says I have to keep it on all evening!”

“ _She_ is a master of her craft and you will show the proper respect,” Fëanaro told his son sternly. “What’s more, you will thank her for taking better care of your ribs than you did yourself.”

He waited for the murmured apology and abject, “thank you” before he continued.

“Thank you, Master Surilinquë for looking after yet another of my sons who refuses to believe that elves cannot fly,” he said.

Pityo glared at his father.

“I flew for longer than Curvo did,” he protested.

“Be happy you didn’t injure yourself as spectacularly as he did,” Fëanaro suggested. He turned back to the healer. “Is he ready to go home?”

Surilinquë nodded with a smile.

“Shall I look for this one to try next?” she asked, nodding toward Telvo.

“We hope not,” Fëanaro sighed, “though if he does, I suspect he’ll have more than just a few bruised ribs as souvenirs.”

“It was a bit worse than just bruised, Prince Curufinwë,” the herbalist reproved him. “There is a fracture on the right side. The young prince will need to rest and refrain from activity for the next two weeks at least. Three would be safest.”

“It will be done, good master,” Fëanaro assured her. “What else?”

“I have made up enough salve for it to be freshened daily for the next five days. By then, if the discomfort is not bearable without it, you should return so I can check that the injury has not worsened. If you have ice in the house, you might also use that to numb the area and save the salve for when the boy sleeps.”

Fëanaro nodded. He’s kept ice in his house since Tyelko first learned to walk, and it’s a rare month when it hasn’t been needed for one son or another.

“Anything else?” he asked.

Surilinquë shook her head.

“Your boys are here often enough, my prince, that you know what to do almost as well as I do by now,” she said with a smile, handing him a jar.

Feanor was thankful to discover it was sealed, as his son had a point – it wasn’t a very pleasant smell. He decided putting the salve on could be Telvo’s task. He’d assisted in the injury, it was only right he assist in the recovery as well.

“And you, young princes, would do better to _think_ before trying such mad schemes. Flying indeed,” Surilinquë added with more than a little disapproval.

Pityo and Telvo both blushed, as embarrassed to be chastised by the healer as they would have been to be scolded by their mother in public.

“Thank yous and farewells, boys, we’re off home,” Fëanaro instructed. “No, Pityo, _don’t_ try to bow. Save your court manners for when your ribs haven’t just discovered the hard way that they’re less sturdy than a brick wall.”

He was somewhat amused that Pityo insisted on walking the entire way home, though he was clearly tired from his adventuresome afternoon. Nelyafinwë seemed inclined to hover over his little brother, but Fëanaro waved him off.

“Whatever you and Finno had planned before I commandeered you has waited long enough, Nelyo,” he told his son. “I can manage the rest of the way from here.”

“Are you sure, Atto?” Nelyo replied, looking torn between concern for the twins and whatever their mischief had interrupted.

“I would hardly have said it if I didn’t mean it,” Fëanaro replied wryly. “Go. I’m sure Finno’s eager to share the story of how Irissë had Nolo convinced this was all some odd misunderstanding and possibly actually my fault.”

“She wouldn’t…” Nelyo started to demur, but stopped at the amused look on his father’s face.

Irissë absolutely _would_ , and all four neri present knew it. Nolo adored his only daughter and never seemed to correlate how much trouble she got into with Artanis and the twins with the idea that some of it might in fact be her own doing.

“Thank you, Atto,” Nelyo said. “I’ll probably eat dinner at Uncle Nolo’s this evening.”

Fëanaro nodded, and kept his two youngest moving toward their own house as Nelyo headed off in the direction of Nolofinwë’s, where he and Finno would no doubt compare notes about what their younger siblings had let slip. With any luck, he’d get to hear about it later.

Without the presence of an older brother, which would have driven him to put on a better show of being both bigger and braver than he was feeling, Pityo deflated somewhat, and Fëanaro wasn’t at all surprised to find him wanting to be carried by the time they reached the front gate.

He whisked his son up the stairs and to his own room, settling him in bed with a gentle reminder that he was to rest, not try to sneak out of bed to join his brother. It didn’t seem necessary, though – if anything, Fëanaro suspected it would be the other way around this time, with Telvo sneaking in to check on Pityo, who looked set to fall asleep as soon as the door closed.

That, however, would have to wait.

“Telufinwë,” Fëanaro said sternly. “I noticed there is a fair amount of equipment up on the roof from today’s near-disaster. You are to go pick it up, and bring it to my study. _All_ of it.”

“But, Atto, the rope is _heavy_!”

Fëanaro didn’t doubt that it was, or that getting it all the way up to the roof had been considerably easier with four than getting it back down would be with only one. However, he rather hoped that given the recent object lesson in _gravity_ , his son would spot that there was a simpler way to get the rope to the study than manhandling it down the stairs.

“Be that as it may, you were party to making the mess on my roof, so you can go clean it up. Take care that you don’t try to carry too much on your own and hurt yourself.”

A glum Telvo headed for the stairs, dragging his feet sulkily at the injustice of it all.

Fëanaro was sure the first quarter hour or so of ‘cleanup’ would be little more than Telvo feeling sorry for himself and his twin, so he didn’t feel the need to accompany the boy. Besides, he trusted he’d soon enough have another semi-guilty son in the house old enough to make sure Telvo didn’t add to the day’s injuries by falling down the stairs or off the roof.

Moryo generally arrived home around this time…


End file.
